


birds can't fly without feathers

by TheGreatestTrashEver



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Dark, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Not Beta Read, Parent Bruce Wayne, This is kinda dark, and I cannot stress that enough, but i guess it's debatable, but i kinda got inspired by watching some random Titan clips lmao, but like not really?, dick doesn't thinking its comforting, i haven't even watched the show, idea time, leaning more towards bad parent than good parent in this one, little iffy on the comfort though, my brain just saw a few bits of it and was like, this doesn't really take place in any universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27441004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatestTrashEver/pseuds/TheGreatestTrashEver
Summary: And this Dick thinks,thisis the fucking problem. Bruce only has two modes: smothering, and insufferable. Overprotective or stoic rage. No in-between; No warnings of what Dick’s going to get. Because right now, he could easily have a Bruce standing over him glowering, and growling toget up, Nightwing. Now.Or, just as easily, have no Bruce here at all.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 115





	birds can't fly without feathers

**Author's Note:**

> This is trash, but I'm on a bit of a high after the election results, so here you go. Have some unbridled angst. What a time to be alive.

_Everything hurts._

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is Bruce. Not Batman, though the man is donning his infamous black cowl and cape, but Bruce. Crouched above him, his face, despite Dick’s limited visibility of it, lined with not just worry, but _fear._ He can tell simply from the way his jaw is clenched, supported by the way his posture is tense and nearly rigid. 

His back aches furiously, like someone took a sledge hammer to it. It takes every ounce of self control he has to not cry out; instead, he chokes on the pain, his breath caught in his throat. 

His first instinct, years ago, when trust was still something he and Bruce, as feeble as at had seemed at the time, held with one another, would be to simply slump with relief. Bruce was here; Bruce would fix everything. But now…

He jerks away, almost desperately, despite the pain. His heart forging a panicked shaped branding on the inside of his ribcage. It's not that he’s scared of Bruce. No, despite their mutual _(liar,_ a voice hisses in his head. _You are such a fucking liar)_ disrelish of each other at the moment, he doesn’t think Bruce will hurt him. He _knows_ he won’t. 

But despite that, there’s an almost animalistic drive, one so strong and overwhelming, to _get away._ He hasn’t always had it. At least he thinks. But he’s older now; he’s _seen things, has experienced so, so many horrible, haunting things._ He has an edge to him now, that not even Bruce can be safe from. 

That or maybe he really does just want to get away from the man. Wants to get away from the man who kicked him out of the only home he’s had since he was eight years old. Wants to get away from the man who took _his name, his Mama’s name for him,_ and gave it to some other poor kid. Wants to get away from the man who he had looked to as a father and who had in return looked at him with nothing but disappointment for the last three years. 

“Dickie,” Bruce sounds startled, “Chum, calm down.”

He doesn’t. Instead he practically throws himself backwards, straight into a garbage can that falls down with a loud clamor. _Hitting him._ Spilling its filthy and quite frankly disgusting contents on and all around him. 

This time he does cry out. The pain is some of the worst he’s ever felt, and not just on the physical side.

The new man, the one had never seen before tonight, with his face wrapped up with a black scarf and a baseball bat (one with _fucking spikes)_ swinging in his grip, must have been trying to truly kill him with all his might. It's the only explanation for the searing, _all consuming,_ spasming agony he was in currently. 

For a second, he wishes they had killed him. Because this was too much. 

Bruce lunges towards him as if he’s been struck by lightning. Dick tries his hardest to get back, bumping into the trash can once more, but his arms take that moment to give out under him, causing his body, and most noticeably, face to slam into the grit and grime covered Blüdhaven ground. 

Bruce says hurriedly, reaching for him. “Dick _stop.”_

“No,” Dick says, and he tries to sound angry and vehement, but the word comes out sounding like a god forsaken _whine._ “Don’t-”

Large, gloved hands find their way to his cheeks, cupping his face as if they have any right to. _Don’t,_ Dick wants to say. _Don’t you fucking dare._

One of Bruce’s hands leaves his face, and suddenly Dick is on his back, staring up at the light polluted sky through the fire escapes that go up the side of the buildings they’re between. He’s laying on garbage. Despite the throbbing pain of his back (or really the throbbing and stinging pain of everywhere), he can still feel the gross, liquid drenched pieces of literal _garbage_ through his suit. 

“It’s me,” Bruce says, his voice a deep rumble, as if that makes this any better. As if they both aren’t acutely aware of the fact that Dick knows _exactly_ who it is. “It’s me; it’s Bruce. You’re safe, Dick. I’m here. I’m here, now.”

 _You’re safe._ That's the biggest load of bullshit he’s heard in a long time, he thinks almost hysterically. 

He’s crying now. _Actually crying._ Tears are running down his face, blurring his already questionable eyesight. He’s _crying._ He’s crying, he has snot dripping from his nose, and he has trash on him, and he’s sure, as well, at least _some blood._

And all of this is happening in front _Bruce._ Bruce, who already doesn’t respect him. Bruce, who already treats him like a child (when he’s not treating him like a piece of shit, or an asset). 

He feels beyond pathetic; he feels mortified. Completely, utterly embarrassed and mortified. 

“Hush,” Bruce says, using the same tone of voice he had used to get little Dick Grayson back to sleep after a nightmare, his other hand having come back up to his face. “Hush, Dickie-Bird. It’s going to be all right, I promise. It’s going to be all right.”

“Why are you here?” He gurgles out, part of him still trying in vain to push away, only for Bruce’s grip on him to tighten. Almost unnoticeably, but not quite. Not enough so that Dick, who knows Bruce like he knows the inside of his own head (as much as anyone can, but not enough so to understand why it does what it does, and seems to hate him) to not pick up on it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“You're hurt,” Bruce says, and Dick can’t really tell if that’s an _answer,_ or if it’s a statement to avoid giving an answer. “What happened, chum? Who did this?”

He tries to say something, he doesn’t exactly know _what,_ but something. In place though, comes another whine. 

He doesn’t even remember what happened, anyways. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t slept well or for more than five hours in the last week and half, or maybe because he was caught off guard by the rumours (the ones he had tried so hard to dismiss) that for some reason _Batman_ would be in Blüdhaven, or maybe, just maybe, it was simply because _Nightwing_ was sloppy. 

“Shh, just breathe, Dickie. Breathe for me, just for a second.”

He doesn’t have the strength to do anything but surrender himself fully to his position, his stance deflating. 

He can’t stand it though, when Bruce brushes his greasy bangs from his forehead. He wants to— he doesn’t know, fight? Scream at Bruce the same thing Bruce had yelled at him the last time he’d seen the man face to face outside the mask? _Get the hell out of my fucking city, and don’t you ever. Come. Back._

A sob rips from his lips, stolen from his throat like a diamond necklace. 

“Oh, Dickie…” Bruce says quietly, as he strokes his cheek with his thumb. “God, I— I should never have let you leave and come here. _Never.”_

And this Dick thinks, _this_ is the fucking problem. Bruce only has two modes: smothering, and insufferable. Overprotective or stoic rage. No in-between. No warnings of what Dick’s going to get. Because right now, he could easily have a Bruce standing over him glowering, and growling to _get up, Nightwing. Now._

Or, just as easily, have no Bruce here at all. 

He’s not sure which option is worse. But this is the one he’s stuck with. 

They stay like this for a couple minutes. Dick’s chest heaving from a mixture of sobs and hyperventilation, and Bruce murmuring soft, sweet words that only stand to remind Dick of the cruel ones that had fallen from his lips what seems like only days ago. 

Eventually, he calms down a little. He’s still crying, but he’s now getting enough air that he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out. From that, at least. His whole body is screaming, still, like it’s being beaten right then and there in the moment. 

“I need to take you home,” Bruce says, most likely to himself and not Dick. “You can’t— you can’t be alone like this.”

 _Home._ Dick wants to snark, and say that the manor is _not his home._ Bruce had made that clear; So, unbelievably clear. But he’s exhausted. Too exhausted to even argue. 

There isn’t a warning when Bruce picks him up. It just happens. One arm underneath his shoulders, the other underneath his knees. 

He manages a scream, whether from the disturbance of his already aggravated bruises and wounds, or from the crushing realization that he’s going to have to deal with Bruce and _all the things_ that come with him. 

They’ll be at each other's throats the second Dick isn’t in actual danger of serious damage to his general well being. 

_At least he’ll get to see Alfred._

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, voice low and, despite all, soothing. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

Dick doesn’t respond to that, simply shoves his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck, wishing more than anything he was in his own shitty apartment on the other side of town. Wishes that he was sitting in the dark, on his sofa, phone in his hands as he debates whether or not he should call Barbra or Wally or _someone_ and tell them that _hey, so maybe you guys were right, I’m not okay._

He wishes, really, that he was anywhere but here. Anywhere but in this situation. 

“My little birdie,” he thinks he might hear Bruce say softly. If he did, say anything, that is, the words were already lost in the unforgiving winds that ravage the streets of the city, like a dark whisper into the ear of every passageway and a shrill scream to the residents hidden within every door and window. 

Carefully, and Dick loathes to admit the fact that Bruce seems like he’s _trying_ to be gentle, they make their way out of the alley. Bruce’s strides are long and quick, despite the additional weight of his ex-Robin in his arms. 

He must let out a whimper, because the next moment Bruce shushes him in a husk voice.

“Almost there, Dick,”

He’s never been more indifferent to those words in his life. 

His injuries are jostled, but he doesn’t feel a thing. His body suddenly feels like it’s outside of his mind's control. Or his mind feels like it’s outside of his body. He’s not sure he knows which, and he’s not sure it matters. 

It’s probably the type of thing Bruce would want him to mention, but in all honesty, Dick doesn’t give two shits about what Bruce wants. Not right now. Not anytime soon. 

And he almost, _almost_ believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed it. This is very short, and also nonsensical, but like, whatever honestly. I wrote this after five consecutive nights of sleep deprivation, so I apologize for any grammatical errors, as I'm sure there are many lmfao


End file.
